One Hundred Eighty Degrees
by EFAW
Summary: If the Gentleman Caller serial killer never happened. AU, oneshot.


**Summary: **If the Gentleman Caller serial killer never happened. AU. Oneshot.

**Warnings: **AU, character death. Minor spoilers for some episodes.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Common Law. All permutations of Common Law characters are my own.

**Written because there are two things I love: AUs and Common Law.**

**OOOO**

**One Hundred Eighty Degrees**

"_If a coin comes down heads, that means that the possibility of it coming down tails has collapsed._

_Until that moment the two possibilities were equal._

_But on another world, it does come down tails._

_And when that happens, the two worlds split apart."_

_-Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass_

* * *

Sutton ends the tour in the squad room, pointing out the empty desk. "And this one is yours." He pauses, and something passes over his face that Wes all too easily recognizes as grief. He doesn't comment, just clutches his box tighter to his chest, and after a moment, Sutton reaches up to clap a hand on his shoulder. "Good to have you with us, Mitchell."

"You realize I'm only here because my department is being phased out of existence," Wes responds dryly, marginally relaxing his hold on his box. He's never been good with emotions and he certainly doesn't want to deal with his new boss's. Glad he managed to avoid that hurdle.

"We will all mourn the loss of Missing Persons," Sutton says, just as dryly as Wes but with a touch more sincerity, "but we still appreciate you joining the team." He steps back. "Now, I'll let you get settled. Phil should be back soon, and he'll show you the ropes."

"Yes sir," Wes says, and Sutton nods before spinning on his heel and heading to his own office.

It takes all of five minutes to unpack his box. He sets his cups of pens and pencils next to the computer, a small potted cactus on the corner of the desk, a picture of Alex on the other side of the computer, and a bottle of hand sanitizer next to the picture. It's kind of sad how that doesn't make the desk look any less empty.

Since he can't do anything yet until his new partner arrives, Wes starts going through the drawers. They've all been mostly cleaned out, something Wes appreciates. He's about to shut the last drawer and twiddle his thumbs while he waits when he sees, stuck in the far corner of one drawer, what looks like a piece of paper. It takes a bit of twisting, but he gets his hand in there and tugs it free, dropping it facedown on his desk.

He stares at the back of the photograph for a moment, feeling something uncomfortable thudding in his chest. He doesn't want to know. He wants to know. He really, really doesn't.

He picks up the photo and turns it over.

There are two people in it, arms slung around each other's shoulders and wide grins on their faces. Wes doesn't immediately recognize the thin-faced blonde, though he thinks he's seen the guy around the station once in a while.

He instantly knows the blue-eyed, dark-skinned man, though.

He's walked by Travis Marks' portrait on the wall downstairs every day for the past month.

"I thought I got all of those," a voice says behind him. Wes starts; the photo flutters from his hand to the desk.

The thin-faced blond from the picture smiles a smile that has little meaning and holds out his hand. "Phil Kronish."

"Wes Mitchell," Wes says, taking the other man's hand and shaking. Phil studies him thoughtfully, a frown creasing his face, and when Wes tries to take his hand back, Phil doesn't let go. It's unnerving. Wes doesn't like it.

"You like rules, Mitchell?" Phil asks. Wes is thrown by the non-sequitur. Also by the continued hand-holding.

"Um," he says, tugging at his hand in a distinct and not-so-subtle hint.

"Rules," Phil continues, not letting up in the slightest. "Do you like rules, law? Do you follow the rulebook?" His voice is serious and his gaze his steady and Wes would really like his hand back _right now_.

"I consider myself very by the book," Wes replies primly, tugging once more.

Phil continues to study him for another half second, but releases Wes's hand. Wes doesn't hide his relief; Phil doesn't notice. His gaze has gone to the photo on the desk. He makes no move to pick it up.

Wes pumps his sanitizer and starts rubbing the liquid on his hands. "Why?" he asks, though he can tell that awkward questioning and the prolonged hand-holding is about Travis Marks, somehow. Being a lawyer taught him about reading body cues and picking up on what people said. Missing Persons taught him about picking up on what people didn't say.

Phil sighs, unfreezing from whatever mental vacation he'd been on, and picks up the photograph, staring at Marks and not moving at all from Wes's personal space. He's silent long enough that Wes is starting to get uncomfortable again, and he's wondering if this is unusual or if he's going to have to put up with this all the damn time from his new partner when Phil speaks.

"Travis was a maverick," he says, his voice ringing with exasperation and fondness and a horrible grief. "Best damn partner I ever had. We caught so many perps together. But the guy just could not follow a rule to save his life."

Now Wes is frozen, not from the personal space issue but because of the emotions flooding Phil's voice and face. Oh god, he doesn't know what to _do_ with this, in Missing Persons it was always Lydia who handled the interviews with grieving parents. All he can do is sit there waiting for the punchline.

"Back-up was his worst peeve," Phil continues, eyes looking at the picture but gaze somewhere far away. "He'd call it in, but he'd never wait for the damn back-up to arrive. 's what got him killed, in the end. That stupid hero complex and that damn luck. But his luck ran out, and then…"

_He got himself on the wall downstairs,_ Wes thinks, but he doesn't say it because it's callous and it's not what Phil needs to hear right now. Only, Wes doesn't know _what_ Phil needs to hear right now, so he doesn't say anything.

Phil's jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. His hand tightens and the photo crumples, but Phil doesn't notice and Wes doesn't point it out.

Then Phil slaps on a smile that's so false it hurts and he claps Wes on the shoulder. "But you're here now, so it's fine," Phil says jovially, moving around to his desk. He sits and shoves the photo into one of his drawers without looking.

Wes looks at his new partner and thinks about Travis Marks and the shoes he's going to have to try and fill. Because Phil is going to look at Wes and every time he's going to think, _He's not Travis_, and Wes doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't want to replace Marks, he knows how impossible it is to replace one person with another, but he doesn't want to be seen as a substitute, either.

He sits in a dead man's chair feeling the shadow of a man he never met looming over him, and he can't help feeling uncomfortably out of place.

But it's only day one. He can figure this out. Things haven't crashed and burned before they even started.

Wes pumps more sanitizer on his hands.

The uncomfortable feeling doesn't go away.

**OOOO**

**Originally written as the +1 in a for a 5+1 fic. 'Five ways Travis and Wes met in another life, and one way they didn't.' But the 5 didn't work out, so I polished this up and made it its own ficlet.**

**Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews and concrit are always welcome.**

**Also, this is my big five-oh fic. Yay me!**

**Until next time~!**


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